Justified Black Eye
by Gip
Summary: How can a heart be broken? Does it crack and hang there half connected? Or does it crumble into a million pieces and fall into your stomach... leaving you to digest this new loss?
1. Four Words

"Do you love me?"

4 words. 4 simple words that only require a single word for an answer. Yes or no, but here I was, staring at her like she had asked me how many stars were in the sky.

She asked again.

Did I love her? I loved our conversations. I loved her lips. I loved the way her hair would cling around her face as she swam to me. I loved to share my bed with her… but did I love her? Just her; if all the quirks and smiles and open legs were gone and it was just her- with no incentives to say it in her ear- or no one saying it first- would I still say it?

I faltered- she saw.

"Fuck you then," she growled through her tears that I failed to see coming. She pulled the necklace away from her body, breaking the clasp and threw it at me- it bounced of my chest and landed on the table between us. I looked down at the gold chain connected to a small key that I had teased saying it was the key to my heart, when I first put it around her small neck.

I heard her walking away but couldn't look up to watch. It always hurt just a bit too much then I'd care to admit. I leaned against the chair and rubbed the back of my neck looking towards the door hoping to see her walk back in and say it was okay if I didn't love her… but I knew she wouldn't. She was too stubborn for that. To stubborn to say after almost a year of climbing into my bed no soft 'I love you's' were okay.

The waiter brought our food; he paused a bit seeing the empty chair in front of me. I hardly glanced up as he stood there dumbly waiting for my move. I stood up and set some money down as I walked towards the door- not looking back at the wasted food or the dumbly frozen waiter or the broken heart we had left at the table.

But did I love her?

That question burned a whole in my thoughts as I trudged through the snow towards home. I could name off every single thing I loved about her as I kicked at the fluff at my feet… but there was one thing standing in my way. Words always got in my way. The world always got in my way… her love always got in my way.

A week later they found her on the bathroom floor, the men's shaving razor still in her grasp. She used mine- or course she did. She used it as punishment- as a reminder… as irony. I guess I'll never really know. I didn't see her until they had her cleaned up and she was lying peacefully under a white sheet. But I saw her blood. The smell of it made me cringe. I threw up, twice. I tried to clean up her mess but I couldn't. It hurt a little too more then I'd care to admit.

That's really where my story begins- my story of heartache and the journey to forget. I could tell you about the way I cried secretly every night for months for the loss of the girl I thought I might love… but I'd rather not show you the broken side just yet. No my tears will not run through the pages of this story, but my anger will.

I left Brooklyn one year ago…


	2. Blood and Heaven

Sometimes, I wish I was the one who had the nerve to slide that dull razor across my skin over and over- it would be stupid for me to do it now- I would be weak, I would be following her. Not being brave and blindly leaving this world like she did. I'm not one to follow

It hurts to be alone now, I was always alone, never had a family I could remember- never took on a friendship that asked more then I was willing to give, never had a girl who stole a piece of my heart… I was an island. But now I felt the emptiness deep inside my stomach hanging there like a rock.

I'd punish myself for being weak. I'd slowly slide the same dull razor over my arm trying to get a sense of what she was feeling in her last moments.

Did she cry out for me?

Did she curse me?

Or did she just idly slide into blackness not giving a damn about the time we spent together.

She had done it before, I found her in an alley with a piece of glass. I watched her slide the small shard over her skin slowly. I stayed in the shadows watching her bleed. It was so casual- she cut herself as if she was lighting a cigarette or swatting at a fly. I was amazed at how her hand hardly shook as the razor drew blood. She watched the red liquid fall to the ground clumping in the dirt like she was watching her pain disappear.

I watched her until she took out a worn bandage from her pocket- she planned this. I felt sick at the sight of her wrapping her pre-planned wound- I had to walk away. I was surprised at the tears burning my eyes and my shaky knees... but I promised I would not talk of tears; but I will talk about my anger.

I wanted to hit her- to slap the idiocy right out of her. Who in their right mind, when planning their day allots a half an hour for self mutilation? To say to themselves- 'I'll have to leave the park a bit early I have a date with my razor' ...

I did now.

I don't know if I thought it would bring me closer to her- or bring her back even for a minute… or if I truly wanted to die… I wasn't sure, but I knew I didn't have enough courage to push the razor just a bit deeper to end it all.

I'd close my eyes while the blood dripped down my hand and think of her. I've only been thinking about our fights lately- the way I'd get strangely aroused when she'd yell at me and push me away from her. The way she would never cry infront of me. I'd try so hard to make her cry, I'd say she was a whore- she was nothing- I'd slap her... still no tears.

After a few more hits we'd fuck against the wall- angry, hard, scratching sex and our fight was over. It never ended with out that. Without that angry release. She was always the best when she was angry.

She never cried in front of me- but I'd hear her.

She'd run out curing my name- she never knew I followed her and listened. I'd hear muffled tears and her throwing things against the wall making me jump when one hit too close to the door. I'd listen until she was done, then walk calmly away like she was nothing to me.

I had won

Even sex had lost all meaning.

I'd just lay there and watch the girl bounce on me finding every flaw. Every extra bounce in her skin- every scar- every hair out of place. If she'd moan and it would drive me crazy I'd close my eyes not letting myself think of her or what she was doing to me.

They were all different- but they had one thing in common- they weren't her.

I'd never get off. After I'd push them off of me and pull up my pants, unsatisfied. Sometimes I'd jack off in the bathroom thinking of her. Her face- the line of her neck- her breasts- her hips. I loved her hips. I loved how my fingers felt digging into them… Other times I'd suffer- I caused this and I wouldn't let myself have that satisfaction.

I'd leave the girls making them feel like a whore for ever trusting me to get under their skirts. Some I'd sleep with again- some I wouldn't but I'd always walk out without a second glance; I'd wait to hear them cry though I'd stand outside their door until I heard that first sob. I wanted to feel their weakness, I liked knowing it was me.

The scars were growing now- up my arms slowly- like a river- or a tree root. Before I'd just rip open the old scab- it would hurt more, but now the scabs were going numb and I was forced to move up my arm starting with a fresh canvas. No one knew this weakness. I'd wear long sleeves in 100 degree whether if I had to.

My life was all about measurements now:

Think about her- no breakfast.

Dream about her- no breakfast or lunch

Jack off to her picture- I'd eat nothing.

I had to wean myself off of her like a mother does to her baby. I knew she wasn't coming back. I knew I wasn't going to see her again. Heaven doesn't exist for people like us.


	3. Coward and Conartists

Heaven is something we all think of around here but none of us believe we'll actually get there. Heaven is for nuns, or for girls who keep their skirts down until marriage. Not for the working boys of New York. It started to be like Santa Clause… just one more thing we'll miss out on because we are alone, because are poor and forgotten about. Thoughts of Heaven slowly melt away as you get older, and when someone in our lives die, they just stay there…

Buried in the ground.

A traveling Preacher came into our diner just before Christmas and told us that we could all be saved; we didn't have to turn to drugs, crime or loose women. We could be Men of the Cloth. We could be saved. God loved us and wanted us to be his children. That is the part that always got the younger ones, making it seem like he was someone who could hold them and feed them.

The Preacher quickly left, bringing God with him when he realized what we already knew. That we are the streets; we are the pain and the drugs, but most of all, we are the damned. The so called _demons_ he warned us of.

We didn't always used to be like this. At one point all of us had families, or at least someone who held us after we were born; someone who briefly thought that their child might do great things in this world given the right chances. As we got older the dreams were quieted by slaps or alcohol and eventually killed by death, or promises of it.

It's a common theme in New York to be alone or to be running. Running from a secret you are sure only you have, but then you realize you are like everyone else. No one on the streets of New York is wanted; no one here has a good life waiting for them. Sometimes the boys even find a friend who is running from the same life, an abusive drunk who pretends to be a father or a mother who is too poor to feed her baby and her growing boy.

Soon, the heart of a child slowly dies and turns into a heart of a man, a cold bitter man who is always looking for the next con or the next deal; something that might give him two dimes to rub together and a shot of whiskey to keep the cold out. Heaven becomes an after thought, and for the first time in said mans life, he is free. Free of conviction, free of empathy, free of dreams.

This man lies in each one of these boys. Some find it sooner then others, some won't find it until they are made to, but eventually every boy turns into a man.

There are two kinds of men in New York, cowards and con-artists.


End file.
